


A Tempest in a Teapot

by dracoqueen22



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Humor, M/M, POV Third Person Omniscient, Pre-Movie, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-03-22
Packaged: 2017-12-06 03:37:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sunstreaker and Hot Rod's arguments are the stuff of legend. Well, Autobot legend anyway.</p>
<p>For the tf-rare-pairing prompt of Sunstreaker/Hot Rod, heated</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Tempest in a Teapot

Sunstreaker and Hot Rod are the epitome of bad romance.   
  
Their arguments are public and the stuff of legend. Autobot legend anyway. And not really a legend since they've only been around for a decade, give or take.   
  
But they are entertaining and better than any single episode of _As the Kitchen Sinks_. Hands down.   
  
Nine out of ten Autobots agree. And the ones that don't wouldn't find amusement in much of anything, not even human soap operas. We're looking at you Ultra Magnus. With a stink optic.   
  
At any rate, today is no different, much to the delight of every Autobot present in the rec room. Which is, of course, every Autobot. No one's running the Ark at the moment physically because most of the systems can be monitored remotely. Handy that.   
  
Except Red Alert. He's kind of testy like that. He's in the rec room in spirit, watching from the monitors, rolling his optics because Sunstreaker and Hot Rod are at it again and don't they ever get bored of the same old rigmarole?   
  
Sunstreaker arrives with a snarl that precedes him, along with the stomping of his pedes and the whirl of his energy field.   
  
“Frag it, Hot Rod!” he shouts, the words echoing around the rec room several times over and rattling in the audials of all those present. “I told you not to touch my stuff!”   
  
Hot Rod is sitting innocently at a table. Though innocent is hardly a term one would use to apply to the colorfully painted mech. Much like Sideswipe as a matter of fact. But his rampant mischief is a tale for another time.   
  
That he's the split-spark twin of Sunstreaker probably explains much.   
  
When Sunstreaker's accusations attack Hot Rod's audials, his tablemates can see the reaction flicker across Hot Rod's face. It starts with a twitch in his orbital ridge, a pinch of his lips, and a stiffening of his spoiler.   
  
His tablemates grin.   
  
Hot Rod shoots to his pedes, chair sliding out from beneath him as he throws his cards to the table. He whirls to face his accuser.   
  
Hot Rod huffs, hands planting on his hips as he stares down his approaching partner. “If you didn't leave your stuff all over the slagging place, I wouldn't have to move it,” Hot Rod retorts with a logical rebuttal.   
  
All other activity in the rec room halts. This is far more entertaining than shooting the slag, playing card games, or making fun of the Decepticons. Such fun as those activities are.   
  
Sunstreaker is a bristling menace of gold fury, his hands fisted and his optics bleeding blue. He looks fit to be tied.   
  
Hot Rod is a young and stubborn hothead with a penchant for recklessness, his chin tilted in defiance and his spoiler quivering with restraint.   
  
The argument continues, words that no mech in the Ark had not heard before.   
  
“I'm an artist! I have needs!” Sunstreaker declares.   
  
“And I don't?” Hot Rod retorts with increasing vocals, indignation rising to the fore. “That's unfair and ridiculous to boot!”   
  
Sunstreaker puffs up like an offended peacock. “What did you call me?”   
  
The casual observer might note that both mechs suffer from personality glitches that are the driving force behind each inevitable argument. Sunstreaker hears what he wants to hear, either interpreting statements as compliments or criticisms. And Hot Rod has the typical affliction of the young – pede in mouth disease.   
  
It makes for a rather thundery combination. One that continues to entertain their fellow Autobots. Especially the ones gathered at the table behind Hot Rod, where a conversation of a different sort begins in whispered fervor.   
  
“Ten creds on Sunstreaker,” one mech mutters as he pushes his chair back from the table, wisely moving from the line of fire.   
  
He is not the only one to make such an intelligent decision. While enjoying the dramatic interludes between Sunstreaker and Hot Rod, it's best to do so from a safe distance.   
  
Laughter rings from his tablemates.   
  
“We don't use credits anymore, Springer,” says a femme with a beautiful pink and white finish. None of her companions are fooled by her petite stature. After all, she once trained under the infamous Elita-One.   
  
“Besides,” says another of their tablemates, his rakish expression matched by the cheerful 38s decorating his Praxian doorwings, “shouldn't you be rooting for Hot Rod?”   
  
Springer smirks and amusement bubbles from his energy field. “I like to pick the winning side.”   
  
Hooting laughter rises around the table. Though carefully quiet. They know far better than to invite the attention of a raging Sunstreaker. And Hot Rod won't be too impressed either. He throws a snit better than any mech in the Ark, hands down.   
  
Only Starscream outmatches him, or so the scuttlebutt claims. And no brave spark has yet to point out that similarity to Hot Rod.   
  
“Disloyal slagger,” accuses a pale green mech, the creaking of his joints giving away his age. Rumor has it he was sparked alongside Unicron and Primus.   
  
Of course, rumor has it that Kup started that rumor himself.   
  
Kup chomps on his cygar, shaking his helm at the younger mechs gathered around the table. “I'm good for twenty credits on Roddy,” Kup adds, thumping down his cards. “I like an underdog.”   
  
“Betting with imaginary funds,” Smokescreen says with a twitch of his doorwings. “What have we come to?”   
  
“Boreddesperationandonetoomanyblowstothe

helm?” Blurr offers, though it takes the occupants a moment to decipher his words. He speaks too quickly for the average processor.

Laughter echoes after a moment's pause.

It is immediately overridden by Sunstreaker's furious bellow.

“That was the one time!” Sunstreaker argues. “And we were on a break!”

“What the slag's a break?” Hot Rod demands, hands waving in the air, his engine revving an angry tune. “I didn't agree to it and now you're just using it as an excuse!”

Sunstreaker stomps a step forward, making a nearby table jump. “I don't need an excuse,” he hisses with a blast of his energy field that makes several minibots nearby keel over.

They would later deny it, Cliffjumper most vociferously.

“No, of course you don't,” Hot Rod retorts with an acidic sweetness sure to curdle the audial of anyone eavesdropping.

Which is everyone.

“Fortunately, I don't either,” Hot Rod adds and he smiles, but it's not really one of humor. In fact, it's edged with a great dose of smug victory. “Because we're over.”

“Over?” Sunstreaker rolls his optics, venting in a rush of sound that one brave spark might akin to a rampaging bull. “When have I heard that before?”

Hot Rod's spoiler gives a jiggle of indignation. “Yeah, well, I mean it this time.”

“Sure you do. And then you'll come crawling back in a day.” Sunstreaker folds his arms over his chest, stubborn and cocky to the last.

It's a familiar look for the frontliner.

“That's what you think!” Hot Rod snarls and he does something rather courageous, at least in the optics of all the Autobots who know and fear Sunstreaker.

Though few, if any, would admit it.

Hot Rod stalks right up to his partner, gets into Sunstreaker's personal space, rising up on the tip of his pedes until they are olfactory sensor to olfactory sensor.

“Read my lips,” Hot Rod says, though technically, it's his vocalizer producing the words. Perhaps he's been watching one too many Earth-based tv shows. “We are never getting back together.”

And with a jaunty flick of his spoiler, a self-satisfied blast of his energy field, and an almost acrobatic whirl, Hot Rod storms out of the rec room, helm held high. That he leaves behind his cards, his winnings, and his cube of high grade doesn't appear to matter to the determined mech.

Silence falls behind him. But not for long. Since when does Sunstreaker ever take defeat graciously?

Short answer: never.

Sunstreaker gapes after his audacious partner before he gathers control of himself with a visible shake from helm to pede, plating lifting and clamping down. His optics narrow. His fingers twitch. His energy field rises like that of a predator on the hunt.

Somewhere, at the bottom of an ocean, three Seekers feel an unexplained chill of unease dance down their backstrut.

“We'll see about that,” Sunstreaker mutters subvocally though the fact that everyone hears it kind of puts a wrench in the works.

Then he, too, goes stomping out of the room, in much the same manner as he entered it.

And because the Autobots are a highly intelligent, dignified and contained regiment of soldiers, they wait until Sunstreaker is just out of immediate audial range before they burst into raucous laughter.

The noise brings all new meaning to the phrase “until all are one.”

“That never gets old,” says one of the Aerialbots occupying a table in the corner. Slingshot doesn't get along with Sunstreaker so he finds it hilarious more than his brothers combined.

But then, no one mech really gets along with Sunstreaker.

No less amused is the table of Hot Rod's friends. And if he knew anything of what they discussed, he might think friends too strong of a term for them.

Springer, of course, is the first to offer terms. Never let it be said that he isn't a loyal best friend. “Two cubes says that Sunstreaker will have him pinned and moaning in a minute.”

“Naw, Hot Rod's wily,” Kup bargains off. “He's probably got an arsenal of tricks and toys to assist him.”

They take a moment to imagine just the kind of toys Kup thinks is worth playing with, and then they all shudder at the mental images of their rusted companion in the throes of passion.

“Thanks,” Smokescreen says dryly and with no small touch of humor. “I think I'll have to go see Ratchet to scrub out that mental image.”

Kup laughs uproariously. He's not offended. These young mechs don't have a slagging clue. He's got tricks they've never heard of. He's forgotten more about the art of interfacing than they'll ever learn.

“You wish you could be as talented as me,” Kup tells the winger, tossing his cards onto the table. An unlucky deal again. Lady Luck just isn't with him tonight.

“Oh, yeah?” Smokescreen asks and leans against the table, scooching his chair closer now that the immediate threat has quit the room. He gets that greedy sparkle in his optics, one matched only by the infamous Swindle. “Put your cubes where your mouth is, old timer.”

“I think I will.” Kup props his pedes up on the table because he can. And because polite society kicked him out a long time ago.

His tablemates aren't quite in agreement however. They look around warily, leaning away from Kup who has now become ground zero. A chill of dread dances down their backstruts and optics glance to the right where most of the command has occupied a table.

Sure enough, they have been noticed.

Prowl is staring right at Kup. His doorwings are rigid, his energy field radiating the urge to walk over and slap Kup with a citation. There's something in the lieutenant's stare that's enough to make even the most battle-hardened of frontliners quake in their armor.

Kup's pedes hit the floor with a clatter.

Prowl's optics wander back to his conversation with Optimus Prime and Ironhide. A careful observer might not that the red security officer is quivering with concealed laughter. Even the Prime's lipplates twitch a fraction.

All of Kup's tablemates ventilate a sigh of relief.

“As I was saying,” Springer says loudly, the entirety of their group shaking off the Prowl heebie-jeebies, “Wager's on, Autobots.”

“You two are incorrigible,” Arcee says with a shake of her helm, but she plunks a palm on the table anyway. “But put me down a cube. In favor of Hot Rod.”

“You know something we don't, femme?” Smokescreen asks with an appraising grin and a waggle of his optical ridges.

Arcee winks at them, sitting back in her chair, a queen amongst peasants. “I might.”

“Do tell,” Springer says, nudging her beneath the table with his pede.

“I would never betray the confidence of a friend,” Arcee replies with a teasing smile. “So just deal another round and let me celebrate my victory later.”

Kup shakes his helm, rings of smoke rising around him in artful puffs. “I'm telling you. Never underestimate a femme.”

Wiser words have not been spoken, Kup.

They would joke and trade jabs and drink each other under the table well into the night and a good portion of the next morning. Springer and Smokescreen would recharge half-on the table and find themselves the subjects of a prankster when they finally stirred from their high grade induced oblivion. It would take hours to scrub away the artistic stylings.

Sweetspark that she is, Arcee half-drags, half-supports Kup back to his quarters so the old mech can recharge on a berth. All the better for his squeaky joints.

And as for Blurr, he burns off all the high grade before the sun rises and is the least overcharged of them all. He's also the only one sober enough to collect all the winnings. Lucky him.

Meanwhile, in the shared quarters of Sunstreaker and Hot Rod, things are going a little differently.

Following the trail of scattered art supplies, discarded weaponry, a broken chair, and several lonesome pillows, a sneaky voyeur finds the aforementioned couple intertwined on their berth, locked in romantic passion. There is no evidence of the earlier aggression, save a few dents earned in the heat of the moment.

If Arcee could she see them, she would delight in her victory. For it is not Hot Rod that is pinned and exhibiting signs of ravishment, but rather Sunstreaker instead. Not that Sunstreaker seems to mind as his energy field radiates satisfaction and his chassis hums in direct correlation to the extent of his pleasure.

Hot Rod, though smaller by contrast, has perched himself atop his querulous partner, arms folded across Sunstreaker's chestplate as he rests his chin upon them. He is vibrating with his own joy as clever black fingers stroke over his spoiler.

“You are one cocky fragger,” Hot Rod says with a purr. He shifts a fraction, letting their plating slide together in such a way to vibrate but not mar their finish.

Sunstreaker hates damage to his finish. And he's always quite vocal about the things he hates.

Sunstreaker smirks, the smirk of a mech well-satisfied. “And you are good at making threats but terrible at the follow up.”

“I could always walk away for real,” Hot Rod retorts with a roll of his optics. But there's little resolve in his tone.

“But what's the point of fighting if we can't make up afterward?” Sunstreaker asks with pretend innocence he must have copied from his brother. Sideswipe has perfected the art of looking harmless even though he's obviously not.

Hot Rod laughs, his spoiler flicking closer to Sunstreaker's talented fingers. “You know they were making bets about us.”

“They always do.” A chuckle rumbles from Sunstreaker's chassis. “They don't have a slagging clue.”

“I admit, it does keep things interesting.” Hot Rod's energy field settles into a contented thrum. “So what's on the docket for tomorrow's fight?”

Sunstreaker relaxes against the berth, holding his partner close. “It depends on whatever you do to frag me off between now and then.”

“Business as usual then.” Hot Rod grins.

They will recharge together, and upon waking, go their separate ways for their separate shifts, content in the state of their personal affairs. All would be peaceful for the better part of a week, until Hot Rod trips on one of Sunstreaker's drop cloths and ends up a paint-splattered mess.

And so it begins again.

****


End file.
